But I'll Take What I Want

[twistedpoison]

(k so whats happening?)

[Cynical Paranoia]

(Moving to Give 'Em Hell Killjoys)

[Arson Anthem]

*The rest of the day passes quickly. The house is quieter with half as many people, though with the six of us it's still a full house (we'd managed to overlook Nack during the morning meeting, and I still haven't seen him in quite awhile. Jump tells me he heard faint thumps from outside that sound like small explosions, though, so that explains Nack's absence). I find a few tattered books in one of the bedrooms and I'm delighted to find one that I recognize - A Clockwork Orange, it's called. I read it a long time ago, in one of the foster homes. They didn't like that I'd read it, as I recall. I flip through it again while I sit by Red's bed, reading the first few chapters out loud when she seems interested. It's fun to try to pronounce the slang, and watch Red try to figure out what it means. I'm not sure what Jump or Gear are up to, but PB said something about cassettes and locked himself in the van.*

*I fall asleep in the chair again around two the next morning, despite Jump's earlier orders. I wake up to see Gear leaning against the door frame, and quickly get up, busying myself with checking Red. She'd finally fallen asleep around midnight, and I'm careful not to wake her. Her bandages look fine and she's breathing evenly, though, and I quickly run out of things to do.*

[Funhouse Gear]

*I stay silent while Arson stalls, waiting until she seems likely to start going over the same ground twice.* Can I talk to you outside? *I see her expression harden, and rephrase* We're going to talk whether you want to or not. Would you rather it be in front of her - *I nod towards Red* -or outside?

[redhavoc]

*I'm awake as soon as I hear voices. It's an ingrained reflex at this point, plus I'm already feeling much better than I did even a day ago. I don't feel as much pain when I breath and my joints don't feel like sandpaper anymore. Jump tells me the bruises are starting to go down and even the stitches on my side feel better*

*At the same time, I know it's more than that. I'm still wary of Killjoys in general, but I've found these individuals to be trustworthy and... something more. They aren't interested in accomplishing something every second or constantly pushing to be better than everyone else. They are just... surviving, living, existing. And it is these moments of existing, moments like when Arson was reading to me (although I didn't understand most of it) that really seem to matter to them*

*I listen to Arson and Gear talk, unmoving. I want to know if they are planning anything, if this little bit of pseudo-paradise will end soon*

[Arson Anthem]

*I curse silently, knowing he's got me trapped, then reluctantly step away from the bed. I glance down at Red, knowing she's probably only pretending to be asleep.* I'll be back in a couple minutes, Red.

*Gear leads the way downstairs and out the back door, and we walk until we're out of easy earshot of the house but close enough to be able to respond to an alarm*

[Funhouse Gear]

*I put my hands in my pockets, watching Arson. The moon is nearly full tonight, and the desert looks almost blue.* So. Retro.

[Arson Anthem]

*I stare back at him levelly.* I'm not going to go along with your little therapy talk, Gear. You want me to tell you how I feel, right? I'll cry about how hurt I am and you'll sympathize and help me feel better, and then we'll all just be happy again. It's not going to happen.

[Funhouse Gear]

I'm not going to make you do anything you don't want to, Arson. You know me better than that. But you can't just pretend the scene in the Tower never happened. I can tell when you're upset, even when you hide it. You can't bottle everything up, it's not healthy. *Her expression doesnt change, and I sigh.* You don't have to talk to me. You could talk to Jump, or write about it, or I don't care what. But do something. You're a killjoy and people depend on you. You can't afford a breakdown a few weeks from now when one too many bad things happens and you can't handle it.

[Arson Anthem]

*I raise a hand and cut him off, feeling my anger rise* Stop. Just stop, okay? This isn't like when Bunny died. You can't just tell me to get over it and be a good killjoy. Bunny died doing what she had to, and now she's gone. That's it. I mourned and I moved on, because that's what happens when you're a killjoy. The thing with Retro is /nothing/ like that. /Nothing/. Retro /chose/ to leave. She /chose/ to turn her back on us, and now I have to live knowing she's there in the city, taking those damn pills of her own free will because apparently they mean more to her than we do. I have to run in the Zones knowing that every time we encounter a patrol, my friend could be aiming a gun at me, hiding behind one of those masks. Bunny died a killjoy. Retro betrayed me. So don't try to tell me I need to move on, Gear. *I realize I'm talking louder that I'd intended, but I don't care*

[Funhouse Gear]

*I stay silent throughout, letting her talk. I know it's not like with Bunny - that's my whole point. It's a whole different kind of hurt. I wait a few seconds after she finishes before I speak.* I just want you to think about it. That's all. I'm going to go back inside, all right? I'll be in the front room if you need me. *Arson's looking past me, not making eye contact. Her hair's untidy after a restless night's sleep, and I reach out and brush a strand into place without thinking, quickly turning and starting back to the safehouse when she looks over in surprise*

*Back inside, I sit down on the couch and start taking apart and cleaning my raygun. I don't think Arson will be back in any time soon.*

[Arson Anthem]

*I watch Gear vanish into the house, then look around at the dark desert, feeling almost lost. I start walking after about a minute, trying and failing to think about something other than Retro. Pollution-laden clouds obscure the moon and I trip over a branch half-buried in the loose dirt, swearing loudly when I land on a dry, thorned bush. I extricate myself with some difficulty, sitting down a few feet away to pick the spikes out of my hands and arms. I tell myself I'm crying because of the thorns, which is probably true, but it's not the only reason.*

*I make my way back to the house after something like an hour. I move as quietly as possible, getting upstairs and back to Red's room without having to talk to anyone. I sit back down in the chair as Red looks over. She'd make an excellent night watch; even when she's asleep, it's impossible to sneak up on her.*

Sorry it took me so long. I hope I didn't worry you. *I see her eyes go to the jagged red scratches left by the thorns, and I flick off a bit of dried blood, feeling self-conscious* Don't worry about it, I'm fine. *I've been saying that a lot lately...*

[redhavoc]

*I see Arson, her eyes puffy from crying and her hands bleeding just a bit. There's dirt on her pants as well, desert dirt, stuff you'd never see at the tower. Nobody cries there either, not if you are an employee...*

*I don't understand crying, so I try to think of a way to get Arson's mind off of whatever is bothering her. After all, she has done so much for me. I get an idea and start to wiggle my way up the stack of pillows behind me. I want to sit up before I try anything else. Too soon the stitches remind me that my skin is still stiff and healing. I gasp a bit, but keep trying. Wilson would have insisted I was out of bed by now...*

[Arson Anthem]

Woah, there... *I move quickly to the bed when I see Red trying to move, helping support her and get her into a sitting position. A few painful spots on my fingers tell me I missed some thorns, and I make a mental note to look more closely when I have light tomorrow morning. Stupid of me, tripping like that.* Careful. Jump'd kill me if you hurt yourself while I was on duty. *I give her a small smile to show I'm not serious - I have to remind myself she isn't used to killjoy-style teasing, and might take me at my word*

[redhavoc]

*It takes me a second to realize Arson's language is figurative, but by then I have what I want. I take her right hand from where she is supporting my back. For a second I compare it to my own, the way I did with Max. I don't know why I do this... maybe you can tell a person by their hands...*

*Hers are thin, but strong and calloused, and marred by the recent scratches. I'm distracted when I see that there are still tiny thorns embedded in her hands. Forgetting everything else, I start to carefully pull them out*